Frick!

Leavi ... wait. What?

Last week was bad.

This week is just ... frustrating.

I already knew that my vacation would be off a bit when I found out the friend I'm going to visit would be spending a couple days in another city.

No worries - it's her job, I understand, it's out of everyone's control, we'll deal with it.

I'm packed, I'm ready to go, and then ... I didn't know for a couple days whether I was going.

The poor girl's grandpa died Monday night.

It's been sorted, trip's on, with some added heart-heaviness ... man. It's been a rough week. For everyone.

Pill kill

I don't take birth control — haven't for years — and today, I read the most ironic thing in the world about those magical little pills.

The wonder drug that lets girls let loose without those annoying little consequences that we otherwise know as babies could be responsible for killing the very sex drive that drove them to the pharmacy counter in the first place.

(The drop is attributed to oral contraceptives that affect hormone levels to prevent pregnancy, and not IUDs or other, nonhormonal contraceptives.)

Huh.

Well, you are 102 ...

I'm doing better about the whole in-my-30s thing this year than I did last year. No panic attacks, no curling up on the floor while crying to my mom on the phone. I'm doing good.

My subconscious seems to think I should be freaking out a bit more about it, though.

I had a dream that I was fighting someone in a boxing ring, and I didn't do very well. Bloody nose, bruised body — the works — at the end. Someone came up to console me afterward, and they said something along the lines of: "Well, you are 102 years old, you know. All things considered, you didn't do too bad."

I looked in a mirror then, and wouldn't you know - white, puffy hair, wrinkles, near-transluscent skin, everything. I was 102 years old. Not quite the same as my early 30s, but to my sleep-addled mind, I guess it might as well all be the same thing.

Googled

You'd think by now, after Googling the name of this blog repeatedly, whoever you are, you'd either have the address bookmarked or memorized. Apparently not, because almost every day, there you are in my traffic meter, Googling the name of this site.

Seriously?

When your mommy interviews for you

I was told a horrifying new job trend via a third-hand conversation.

Horrifying.

A man who conducts seasonal hiring for (anonymous) was told, during a recent hiring practices seminar, that this year, he should not be surprised if, while interviewing Johnny Job Hopeful, Johnny's mommy tags along.

I'm not talking about mommy bringing Johnny to the interview or helping him find the right room for the interview.

I'm talking about mommy interviewing with her dear little boy (or girl — let's be fair). Right there in the room. Answering questions on behalf of her precious little poopsie.

Here's why: Johnny (or Janie), expensively educated and counseled and medicated through his adolescent years, having graduated (or dropped out) and gingerly setting his cute lil' feet into the choppy waters of the real world, is now incapable of a) getting out of bed in the morning without Mom or Dad to gently shake him out of his stupor; b) working out his "duhs," "ders," "likes," "you knows" and text lingo into coherent sentences which are intellible responses to serious skill-assessing questions; and c) successfully navigating his way on a daily basis to a place of gainful employment.

Are you effing kidding me?

And this guy has to consider these kids as legitimate job candidates.

I don't know why I worry that I won't be able to get a job anywhere in the world. I don't have to bring my mommy or daddy to the interview with me. That should get me automatic bonus points.

What a bunch of pansy-assed ninnies I'll be in charge of some day.

I will always have a job.